


Perfectly Imperfect

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Image, Cunnilingus, F/M, Greece, Humor, Instagram, Mental Health Issues, Mention of eating disorder, Photography, Romance, Sex, Social Media, Thicc Dany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Jon hates social media but he's in dire need of money. When offered a job photographing Instagram model Daenerys in Greece, he decides to take it. But Daenerys is nothing like he expected - and three weeks in the scorching heat soon makes it hard for Jon to keep his thoughts to himself.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 163
Kudos: 634





	1. Chapter 1

The moment Jon steps off the plane, he is drenched in sweat. The dry Greek heat settles in his throat and makes him feel parched. Even before he’s made it through passport control, he knows that coming was a mistake. He misses the Scottish Highlands. He tries to pretend his tee is sticky with rain. He can smell himself; deodorant, cheap aftershave, morning breath. He washes his mouth in a cup of lukewarm vending machine coffee before heading outside the terminal.

Missandei waits for him at the car park. She wears a yellow playsuit and designer shades. When she sees him, she takes them off and waves. The grin on her lips is big and genuine. She looks just like she did in college. “Jon!” she calls. “Look at you!”

“Look at _you,”_ Jon replies and sends her a tired smile. His body aches after hours of travelling. A wheel on his suitcase is stuck. It lugs across the asphalt as he approaches. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Nope,” Missandei agrees and sticks the sunglasses into her hair. Her eyes roam his body - quickly, yet thoroughly. Her nose wrinkles slightly. “You look haggard. Isn’t the flight only an hour from Athens?”

“I spent the night at the airport,” Jon explains. Before he can stop her, Missandei’s arms swing around him and she drags him in for a hug. As her fingers sink into the wet fabric of his shirt, she quickly pulls back. “On the floor,” he clarifies shyly, “I haven’t showered for a while.”

Missandei’s hands twitch, but she resists the urge to wipe off her palms. “Right,” she says, her voice a bit more strained though she still smiles at him. “Grey did mention you travel according to price, not comfort.”

“How is Grey?”

“Oh!” Missandei throws up her hands with an exasperated look on her face. “I imagine he’s island hopping all across Asia, probably getting sunburned on some Thai beach surrounded by models and overpriced cocktails.”

“So, working hard?” Jon says with a small chuckle that Missandei matches as she nods:

“That’s what he says. Anyway - pop your gear in the trunk and let’s get going. I want to avoid the morning traffic.”

They make their way down dusty roads, the blue water becoming visible in the distance as they cross the island toward the coast. _Santorini._ It’s a place Jon has seen in brochures but never imagined he’d visit. The glossy photos always promise sun, whitewashed buildings, and picturesque villages set atop soaring cliffsides. It’s pretty. It’s boring. He would much prefer the frozen wasteland of Greenland. Still, as Missandei suggests cutting through some towns for a more _scenic route,_ he agrees and pretends to be interested.

As the car bumps down the narrow cobbled streets of a nearby township, Missandei lights a cigarette and sighs. “So, Jon,” she says, and he recognises her business-like tone from their time as students; friendly, but direct, “what did Grey tell you about the job?”

“Well, he says it’s good money,” Jon jokes. He expects Missandei to laugh, but she just sends him a blank stare. He looks away and lights a smoke too. “He mentioned it’s for social media. Fun shoots, not too much posing. Something about Pinterest?”

“Instagram,” Missandei corrects him.

“Yeah, that. He spoke of authenticity, influencer culture. I mean, he really just gave me buzzwords.” Jon shrugs and has a drag of his cigarette.

Missandei nods and bites down on her tongue. “Right,” she mumbles. There is no traffic on the road, yet she’s staring straight ahead, her brows furrowed as if intensely focused. The only sounds are from outside; street vendors setting up, tourists asking for directions, the chime of a sole bicycle passing them by. She watches the rider until he disappears over the hill. Then she turns to Jon. “You need to take this seriously.”

“Of course,” Jon says, taken aback at her sudden change of tone. The cigarette hangs from his lips as he blinks at her. “I always do.”

“Grey vouched for you, and so did I. She’s my _friend.”_

Jon is starting to doubt the detour was purely for his pleasure. As Missandei watches him with care, he reaches out and places his hand atop of hers. “Hey,” he says, and her stern face softens at his touch. He curls his fingers around her hand, ignoring his sweaty palm as he gives it a squeeze against the steering wheel. “Missi, _we’re_ friends too,” he reminds her. “I’m not going to do something stupid.”

“You hate social media,” Missandei says. “Youtubers, Instagrammers - you’ve always thought those people were _dull.”_

“I mean-,” Jon starts, but he finishes his sentence with a mere shrug.

Missandei gestures around them. “You probably think this gorgeous place is a waste of your time.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jon says, feigning interest in the buildings they’re passing by. It’s not a lie - Santorini _is_ beautiful, especially now as the rising sun drowns the streets in a soft orange glow. He could take hundreds of photographs and never find fault in a single of them. The thought alone makes him feel sick. He suppresses a sigh as he looks back at Missandei.

“You’re a liar,” she says. She’s smiling. It calms him a little.

“But I do good work,” Jon points out, and she nods and shrugs his hand off as she has another drag of her cigarette.

“You sure do,” she agrees. “Look, all I’ll say is this - Daenerys doesn’t take any crap. She knows what she’s doing. She’s got a lot of followers, and she makes bank on promotions. So whatever she asks, just do it. And don’t sulk.” Missandei adds the last part with her finger raised in warning.

Jon gawks at her and crosses his arms. “I don’t _sulk,”_ he insists, feeling a gloomy sensation of bother settling over him at her words.

Missandei smiles wryly. “Sure,” she says, followed by, “we’re here.”

As Jon exits the car and gathers his luggage, he peers at the building in front of them. It’s a plain, white villa with stocky, short walls. It looks like it’s been built partially into the ground. He can’t help but imagine most of the rooms to be clad in darkness, resembling a dingy, humid basement.

“We’re all staying here,” Missandei says and locks up the car.

Jon almost laughs in surprise. “What, _all_ of us?” he asks and sends her a peculiar look. “Isn’t it too small?”

“Not once you’re inside,” she promises. She picks up a few of his bags before gesturing for him to follow.

They make their way down a set of steps and through a wooden gate. Jon is so focused on not dropping his camera bag that he doesn’t pause to look around until the door swings shut behind him. However, the moment his eyes drag up across the courtyard to the villa, he feels his face flush with shock.

What he thought to be the basement of the house is really just the second floor of the building reaching out onto street level. The whole place is a two-storey villa partially built into the cliffside, with a front made of glass and a glimmering pool taking up most of the yard. Just beyond a small strip of green, the land dips again, revealing a clear view of the Aegean Sea.

As Jon stares, Missandei looks back at him. “Think we’ll fit?” she teases with a grin.

Jon just nods in reply. He feels like he’s stepped into someone else’s dream vacation; hammock hanging over the water, sun loungers on a wooden deck, pizza oven under a thatched roof - and there, easily visible through the windows, a large, soft bed. He stares at it with longing eyes.

Missandei catches him looking. “You must be tired,” she says. “Come on - I’ll show you to your room.”

The inside of the villa is just as impressive as the outside. Everything seems new, and clean, and perfect. Jon feels ashamed to drag his dirty Dr Martens up the stairway as Missandei leads him to the second floor. He tries not to touch the walls. He suddenly feels very _unclean._

“Daenerys and I stay downstairs by the terrace,” Missandei explains as they walk. “We have another room up here for visitors. You’ll have the fourth bedroom.”

_“Fourth_ bedroom?” Jon says, astonished. “How many are there?”

“Five - and the sleeping sofas,” Missandei says.

“And you all live here? I mean, _Daenerys_ lives here?”

Missandei laughs. “Daenerys lives in London!” she says and sends him an overbearing look. “She’s just staying here as part of an advertisement campaign. Honestly, Jon - did Grey not tell you anything?”

Jon feels his ears burn red. “Must’ve slipped his mind,” he mumbles.

“Daenerys is out meeting with some local businesses, but she’ll be back this afternoon. For now, just relax - work will start tomorrow.” Missandei stops as they reach the end of the hallway. She opens the door on the right and leads him into a bedroom. It’s at the edge of the villa, painted in cool tones of grey and sparsely decorated with wooden furnishing. The main wall consists of floor to ceiling windows. They’re covered with a thin curtain. When Jon pulls it aside, he has a clear view of the pool below.

“This is something else,” he mumbles, only slowly dropping his luggage to the floor as he can’t drag his eyes away from the water.

Missandei claps her hands together. “Well, I’ll let you settle in. If you get hungry, just grab something from the kitchen. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Right, thanks Missi,” Jon says, and Missandei smiles at him before leaving, closing the door behind.

Jon knows he should unpack. He promises himself a shower. He can smell himself, taste himself, feel himself - the itchy sensation of dried sweat is creeping all over his body. The sensible thing would be to _get clean._

Still, the second he’s alone, he strips naked and climbs into bed. The duvet is soft, and everything smells fresh: of cotton, and linen, and fabric softener, and salty sea air. Jon buries his nose in the fluffy pillows, allowing his body to succumb to the downy sensation. He knows he’s dirty. He doesn’t care. He’s tired, and a few hours will do him well. He’ll be up before Daenerys gets back, he decides. He will be refreshed, and ready, and definitely not sulky. He will make a good impression.

Jon closes his eyes.

* * *

Jon opens his eyes. The room is clad in darkness. He can’t remember where he is. His mouth tastes foul, and his head feels numb as he pushes himself up to sit. He doesn’t know the time. He guesses it must be late. Through the thin curtains, only a slither of light falls in. It is warm. His body is sticky. It is hard to think when parched.

For a few minutes, he just sits listening, looking, remembering. Then, Missandei’s words come back to him: _Daenerys is out meeting with some local businesses, but she’ll be back this afternoon._ His hands search the floor in the dark. He grabs his jeans and digs his mobile phone out of the pocket. He stares at the time. 19:52. _Fuck._

Jon scrambles out of bed and over to his suitcase. He chooses clothes at random, dressing in a hurry as his eyes scour the room for his camera bag. He finds it by the curtain. He wonders if Daenerys has seen his portfolio. He wonders if he’s got any good photos to show. He wonders who’s swimming in the pool.

There’s a splash of water. Jon can’t hear it, but he can see it - in the dim glow from the fairy-lights strung across the yard, the cascading droplets glimmer. He spots a body as it glides through the water and emerges on the other side. A woman drags herself halfway out of the pool, her elbows resting on the pale stone edge as she breathes. Her silver hair is soaked and hanging down her narrow shoulders in thick locks. Her breasts are barely contained in a white triangle bikini-top. The fabric is thin. Even from afar, Jon thinks he can see the shape of her pink nipples through the wet mesh.

Jon swallows. His grip around the camera bag tightens. He knows he should look away

\- but as the woman climbs all the way out of the water, he can’t help but stare. He sees her soft stomach and fleshy buttocks and thick thighs. He notices the skimpy bottom. It’s just as soaked as her top. He thinks he can see the outline of her sex. He wonders what she’d taste like - the scent of chlorine, the sweet flavour of her juices. His throat clenches in a gasp. His body stirs at the thought.

The woman wraps her hair around her hands and squeezes water out of it. It rides down her body in streams. Jon imagines he sees some cling onto her stiffening nipples. He’s certain it drags in between her buttocks. As she turns her back on him, he wonders how deep the string of her bottoms go. It disappears in the peachy shape of her arse. He imagines the wet snap it would make if he were to pull it and let go.

The woman lets go of her hair. She looks at something in the distance. Jon follows her gaze, across the green bushes, far off into the dark sea. When he looks back, she’s watching him over her shoulder.

Jon stumbles backwards away from the glass with a yelp. He clasps his hand over his mouth. His face feels hot and red. The edge of the curtain flutters from where he pulled it. “She didn’t see me,” he whispers. He tries to convince himself. He feels like throwing up. “She didn’t see me.” Speaking out the lie should make it feel real. Jon still shivers as he pulls the bag strap over his shoulder and braves his way downstairs.

He can hear talking in the living room - two women. One of them is Missandei. When she laughs, her voice carries far.

“-not true!” she says. There’s a slight pitch to her words. Jon guesses she’s been drinking. “There is no way you can see _anything_ in that photo - I swear!”

“Well, hopefully you see _something!”_ the other woman replies. Her voice is full of laughter too, and sensuality, and warmth. Jon imagines she’s the kind of person people call just to hear her voicemail. He pauses at the bottom steps, facing the view of the now empty pool, and listens to them speak.

Missandei clicks her tongue. “You know what I mean. I’m saying - you won’t get flagged for _inappropriate content._ Oh God, I can barely say it - _in-ap-pro-pri-ate._ How strong did you make this drink?”

“Well, if you say so, I’ll maybe add it to my story.”

Jon takes in a deep breath. He licks his teeth. He cracks his neck. Then he rounds the corner and casually enters the living room. “Good evening,” he greets. He means to sound nonchalant. His voice comes out hoarse.

The room is softly lit up, making the white walls appear almost yellow. Sitting on a grey sofa close to the doorway is Missandei. She jumps to her feet, the glass of gin in her hand almost spilling over, and turns to send Jon a big smile. “Jon!” she says, sounding as chirpy as she did when she picked him up from the airport. The shades in her hair are the same. Jon can see his own nervous face reflected in them as she reaches over and drags him closer by the arm. “I thought you’d died up there. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, it’s a good bed,” Jon says. His voice is wary. Out of the corners of his eyes, he’s spotted the other woman. She sits in an armchair by the windows. She is dressed in a white, fluffy robe, but Jon recognises her at once - wet silver hair. It frames her face beautifully, drawing him in. Behind a pair of pale lashes, her violet eyes watch him closely.

Missandei turns to the woman. “Daenerys - this is the guy I’ve been talking about, Jon Snow. Jon, meet Daenerys Targaryen.”

Daenerys gets up slowly. Her robe falls open at her legs. Jon can see how tanned she is. Freckles peck her skin all the way down to her ankles. He tries not to stare at anything in particular as he holds out his hand toward her. “Nice to meet you,” he says. He eyes the carpet. It’s beige and dull. He knows there’s only so long he can feign interest in it.

Daenerys’ hand closes around his own. Her fingers are wet from the pool. He can smell chlorine in the air - just like he imagined. “I’m glad you like the room,” she says. Her voice carries a smile, but when he peers up, it’s a smirk that he finds on her lips.

“It’s very lovely,” Jon says, still shaking her hand.

“But not as good as the view,” Daenerys says.

Jon feels his cheek burn. He looks into her eyes, but there’s no sign of reproach - just amusement. He almost finds that to be worse.

“Oh, that’s true - you must be able to see a lot of the water,” Missandei muses. “You can’t see that far from down here.”

“I can’t see a lot in the dark,” Jon says to both of them, but mainly Daenerys.

She cocks her head and lets go of his hand. “What a shame,” she says, “perhaps there’ll be better light tomorrow, hmm?” She slips back down into her armchair, grabbing her glass of wine off the side table.

Jon doesn’t know what so say, so when Missandei asks:

“A drink?” he merely nods. He feels sick. He doesn’t want alcohol. When she returns with a whisky, he still downs half of it in one gulp before sitting down on the sofa. His fingers dig into the fabric of his camera bag. It’s like he needs something to hold on to.

Daenerys points to it. “Are you heading out?”

“Ah, no, it was just in case you wanted to shoot.”

“Work starts tomorrow,” Missandei reminds him. She tops up his whisky before joining him on the sofa. Her eyes look him up and down - messy curls, askew shirt, growing sweat patches - and she pointedly adds: “I think you need the night off.”

“If you’re keen, I could use your professional opinion,” Daenerys says. She’s flicking through apps on her iPhone. When she hands it over, she asks: “Tell me what you think of these.”

The photos on the screen makes Jon’s cheeks flush. It’s the sight from his window, but up close; Daenerys posing by the pool in a small, white bikini, water clinging on to her sun-kissed skin. In the horizon, the last rays of sun glimmer across the sea. It makes her frame light up.

“Now, Missandei here thinks they’re good,” Daenerys says. As Jon holds the phone, she flips through the photos for him - facing the camera, pulling at the string, smiling cheekily, blowing kisses.

“They _are_ good,” Jon agrees. He can’t help but feel his groin throb. He blames it on how close she is. The scent of wine on her breath lingers in the air. He scoots a bit further back into the sofa as he eyes the last picture from afar; buttocks facing the camera, eyes peering over her shoulder, her plump lips tugged into a teasing smile. “They’re very… _inviting.”_

“I’m worried if you can see anything _explicit._ White bikinis can be rather see-through, and I don’t want to get in trouble when I post.”

“Well,” Jon says and clears his throat. He furrows his brows and tries to look at the photos objectively. He flicks back through them. His gaze roams her breasts and bottom. Under the watchful eyes of Missandei and Daenerys, he feels his heart beat with embarrassment - more so when he realises _nothing_ is visible. Whatever he thought he saw was just his imagination. He can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed. “They look fine to me. Of course, if you’re concerned, I’d use the last one. You can only see your, uh, _behind.”_ Jon pauses. He feels he needs to say something more professional, so he adds: “It’s a nicer light when you don’t have the sharpness of the sun.”

“Told you,” Missandei exclaims with a look of self-satisfaction.

Daenerys rolls her eyes, but she takes the phone back with a shrug. “Fine, Missi, you win. I’ll add it to my story.”

“Your story?” Jon asks and looks between the women.

Daenerys’ fingers click across her screen, but she looks down at him with a quirked brow. “On Instagram?” she says, her fingers still moving at speed. “Do you follow me?”

“Grey gave you the handle, right?” Missandei says. It’s less of a question, more of a statement.

Jon feels obliged to reply: “Of course,” and he dips his nose into his drink before he can ask: _What is a handle?_ He makes a mental note to look it up later.

Daenerys settles back in the armchair. She is still looking at her phone as she asks: “What’s your experience?”

“With what?” Jon replies.

Her violet eyes peer over the top of her mobile. It’s just for a second, but he thinks he sees them glimmer with bemusement. “Photographing,” she says slowly. “Grey said you have your own studio? In Glasgow, was it?”

“Edinburgh,” Jon corrects her. “Yes, I do. It’s,” _small, cheap, paint scaling off the wales, recent flooding has made the floorboards dingy, mould is growing in the corners,_ “my life, really. My project.” He bites his tongue and hopes no one prods him further.

Daenerys puts her phone away and tugs her legs up into the chair. She wraps her arms around her knees. Her robe falls to her thighs. Jon can see the strap of the bikini bottoms at her hips. He tries not to stare - but he does look. “Grey has worked with me for _years,”_ Daenerys explains, “and he’s great - knows what I like, what I hate. I don’t really enjoy the idea of someone else photographing me.” She pauses. She watches him for a reaction.

Jon makes sure not to give anything away as he stares back at her. He wants to ask: _Then why did you hire me?_ \- but Missandei’s warning echoes in his head. _Don’t sulk._ He bites back a scowl. He looks alert, keen.

“But,” Daenerys continues, and her expression softens, “I don’t want to hold anyone back. He got a great job offer, and who was I to protest? I’m sure he’s told you all about it.”

_Yes,_ Jon thinks, staring down at his drink, _he has._

Since university, his communications with Grey have been sporadic at best - forgotten messages on Facebook, a few Whatsapp calls, and the odd night out whenever he was in Scotland. But when Grey was faced with the possibility of spending three weeks in the scorching sun shooting for a magazine, the friendly phone-calls became _pleadings._

“I need someone to cover for me,” he said, “and I wouldn’t trust just anyone.”

“Why do you trust me?” Jon asked. “You haven’t seen me work since uni!”

“Mate, shut up - your stuff is good. I’ve seen your online portfolio. You’re exactly what I need.”

“And what is that?”

Jon remembers the way Grey grinned down the phone as he replied: “Someone who’s not shy.”

“Anyway,” Daenerys continues, bringing Jon back from the memory, “Missi takes great photos, but I can’t expect her to both shoot and manage the account. It’s too much work for one person. Besides, if she recommends you, you must be good.”

“I hope so,” Jon says, nodding a bit. “I’ll do my best.”

“Yes, you will,” Daenerys replies as she empties her glass of wine. It could be his imagination, but Jon thinks he sees her eyeing him up and down, her gaze lingering on every inch of his body. He finds himself tightening his muscles. Then, she stands, pulling at the tie of the robe as she yawns. “I’m off to bed, guys. Let’s do a few more sets at the pool tomorrow. Is nine okay?”

“Perfect,” Jon says.

“Sleep well,” Missandei smiles, and the two of them hug before Daenerys slips out of the room, down the hallway, and disappears around a corner. The quiet that follows is short lived - the moment the door clicks shut, Missandei turns to Jon with an incredulous glare. “You need to _stop staring,”_ she scolds.

Though his cheeks burn, Jon blinks at her innocently. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I swear you undressed her three times over in the space of, what, twenty minutes?”

“I was looking at her photos. She asked me to!”

“Mhmm.” Missandei leans back into the sofa, watching him over the top of her drink. “She will eat you up if you’re not careful.”

“Is that a threat, or a promise?” Jon replies airily.

The mood is tense. Then, Missandei breaks out into a laugh. “You haven’t changed since college,” she says and shakes her head. “You’re still a _twat.”_

“Maybe,” Jon says, finishing his drink with a small grin.

“Just make sure you study her profile before tomorrow. I don’t want you caught unaware.”

“Don’t worry,” Jon says, and he puts the empty whisky glass back on the table with an assured nod, “nothing surprises me anymore.”

* * *

Jon is halfway through his breakfast when Missandei slams three vibrators down in front of him. “Bring these to the shoot,” she instructs.

Jon sinks the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. The cornflakes suddenly feel mushy in his mouth. He stares at the three toys - a purple dildo, a small golden bullet, and a round piece of rubber that looks like an egg. He looks back at Missandei. “What?” Milk drips down his chin.

“Chew and swallow,” she grimaces and hands him a napkin. As Jon wipes off his face, she leans onto the counter with her brows quirked. “Did you look at her Instagram?”

“Yes,” Jon lies.

“Then you know what to do.” Missandei gets up and flounces out of the kitchen, leaving him with a: “She’ll be out in five.”

Jon bins the rest of his breakfast before returning to the vibrators. He gingerly picks one up with two fingers, relieved to find that it feels _unused._ They smell of plastic. He imagines they’ve just been unwrapped. “Hey, Missi!” he calls. “You know what kind of stuff I photograph, yeah?”

Her voice echoes back: “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Jon turns over the dildo. Realistic veins have been moulded into the shaft. “I tend to do things that are _tasteful._ I don’t do, eh, _erotica.”_

“They’re for a promotion.” Daenerys strolls into the kitchen and smiles at him. She’s in a red bandeau swimsuit. Her silver hair has been curled. It bounces softly around her shoulders as she reaches over and grabs the dildo off the counter. She turns it between her hands as she sends him a confident look. “I won’t be naked.”

“Oh,” Jon says, unable to come up with something more intelligent on the spot. His face feels warm. He’s started to sweat again. He blames it on the air - even with a fresh morning breeze blowing through the open terrace doors, he can feel the dry heat outside. The view of Daenerys’ swimsuit digging into the fleshy shape of her thighs doesn’t help him cool. He averts his eyes and grabs his cup of coffee. “Sure.”

“Unless you want me to be naked,” Daenerys says.

Jon’s eyes snap up to meet hers. He flushes. “What?”

Daenerys looks innocent. She shrugs a curl of hair behind her shoulder as she clarifies: _“Tastefully,_ of course. I wouldn’t want to compromise your integrity. Besides, Instagram doesn’t allow indecent photos.”

_Tastefully._ Jon realises she’s not flirting, she’s talking _business._ Still, the way her fingertips trace the shape of the dildo is anything but _decent._ He has a gulp of coffee before standing up. His legs feel weak. He forces himself to straighten. “Where do you want to go?”

“Maybe in the loungers,” Daenerys muses and looks out of the windows. She throws the dildo to Jon who barely manages to catch it. He can smell her on the plastic - lotion, perfume. A hint of peonies. She winks as she adds: “Let’s play around a little, hmm?”

They start by the pool. Daenerys lays down on the edge, her tanned, freckled skin contrasting nicely against the white stone. The bullet vibrator is in her hand. She holds it by her breast with a cheeky smile. As Jon hovers her, his camera focused on her upper half, he holds his breath expectantly. He may have never photographed one, but he’s seen Instagram models before - stomachs sucked, sides curved, hands covering any unflattering blemishes that won’t easily be photoshopped away.

But as the seconds pass by, he realises that Daenerys is just _lying_ there. Her navel is relaxed. Her breasts flatten in the swimsuit, pulled by the stretchy material and gravity. Her eyes peer up at him - happy, confused. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

Jon wrenches his tongue around his mouth. “Uhm, will this work?” he asks.

Daenerys’ cocks her head. Her hair falls across the stone. “I don’t know,” she says, “will it?”

“Well,” Jon starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. He imagines the scolding he’ll receive if he takes the photos: _why did you make me look like that?_ He sucks on his lower lip. He then pulls the camera back. “The sun is too sharp,” he lies, “let’s try by the terrace.”

As Daenerys gets up and grabs the toys, he pretends to be playing around with the settings on his camera. But out of the corners of his eyes, he watches her exposed buttocks wobble as she makes her way around to the other side of the pool. He imagines touching them, his fingers dipping into the flesh, pinching, making her red. It makes his groin ache. He tries not to think about it.

In the shade from the thatched roof, Daenerys leans back against the railing, sending him a curious look as he approaches. “Is this better?” she asks.

Jon lies: “Yes,” but knows: she was gorgeous lying down, and she is gorgeous standing up - from her heavy breasts, to her soft stomach, to her full thighs. The way she crosses them and leans her head back, sending the camera an _I-dare-you_ look could put him on edge. The light scatters through the roof. It looks like she’s covered in freckles. It is summery. It is soft. Even the dildo in her hand doesn’t seem obscene when matched against the green backdrop of the garden.

Jon lifts his camera. He takes in a deep breath. Then he starts to photograph.

Daenerys is laughing. Daenerys is playing with her hair. Daenerys brandishes all three vibrators between her fingers as she winks. Daenerys reaches over the railing. Daenerys sits on the steps to the terrace. Daenerys, Daenerys, Daenerys.

The sun is rising higher in the sky. Jon feels a sunburn prickle his nape. Still he can’t stop shooting, Daenerys keeping him on his toes as she confidently strolls around, poses, finds a new spot to linger at.

Daenerys is licking her lips. Daenerys is blowing raspberries. Daenerys is on her back, legs in the air, her ankles crossed as she glances up at him, her head lolling off the edge of the terrace. Her body curves under the swimsuit. The fabric stretches over her breasts. The dildo rests by her cleavage. She grins when he stares. Daenerys, Daenerys, Daenerys.

By the time they break, Jon has about fifty photos worth choosing from. He clicks through them as she has a sip of water, her cheeks flushed from the heat. He realises that Missandei was right; Daenerys _does_ know what she’s doing. He would be hard pressed to pick a favourite. He likes the way her eyes glow. He loves her freckled behind. His eyes get lost in the curves of her body. The thought of editing anything away makes his heart ache.

When she returns, he offers her the camera. She silently flicks through a few of the photos before nodding. “Looks good,” she says and hands it back to him. “Send them to Missi - we’ll sort them later.”

“All of them?” Jon asks surprised and, when she nods, he adds: “Do you need me to photoshop anything?”

Daenerys’ nose wrinkles. “We’ll take care of it,” she says with a distant voice.

“Okay,” Jon mumbles. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach; the idea of someone else editing, cropping, and adding filters to his photos makes him tense. He imagines Daenerys online, slimmed down and airbrushed smooth. Perfect like Santorini. Pretty. Boring. But the job pays well. _And Missandei said not to sulk,_ Jon reminds himself, so as Daenerys watches him, he forces a smile. “I’ll grab my laptop and get it sorted.”

“Meet me in an hour,” Daenerys says, finishing her glass of water before slumping down in one of the sun loungers. “We’re meeting up with a sponsor.”

“Okay,” Jon says again, and he slinks inside and up the stairs, his gaze still focused on his camera. He feels empty. He tries not to think about it.

The aircon in his room is whirring. He settles beneath it and checks his mobile. There are three missed calls from his sister. He closes his eyes. He takes in a deep breath. He calls her back.

Sansa’s voice is cheery: “Hey, Jon! How’re you?”

“Good, good,” Jon says. He tries to sound upbeat. “Just away for work right now.”

“Oh, good on you. What kind?”

Jon bites his tongue. “Landscape,” he finally says. “Nature.”

“Really? I thought you only did people.”

“Well, I’ve got to make money somehow.”

“True.” There’s a pause. Jon holds his breath. She speaks: “Well, I won’t keep you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Mh-hm!” she hums. “Talk to you later.”

“Right, bye.” Jon stares at the phone in his hand. He feels sick. The job is good money. _Don’t think about it._ He puts on some music. Rock fills the room. As he grabs his laptop and starts to upload the photos, he lets the deep roar of the bass drown out the noises in his head. It’s better not to think, and feel, and care.

* * *

It’s better not to look. Still Jon stares.

Daenerys wears a silver playsuit. The sequins on the fabric are so heavy that she sparkles like a disco-ball in the sun. She looks ridiculous. She looks amazing. She swings a pair of car keys around her finger as she climbs the stairs. Her black sandals make a dull noise against the stone.

“I’m driving,” she says, and Jon just nods and waits for her to unlock the car before getting in.

It’s past noon. The streets simmer with heat. As they set off down the hill, Daenerys turns on the radio. Her nails tap against the steering wheel. She sings along to Taylor Swift.

“Is it far?” Jon asks. He watches the sky. It is blue, and not a single cloud is visible. He can feel sweat trickle down his back. He’s already changed shirts twice. He cracks the window open and lets the air bash to his face. It is hot. He grimaces.

“About fifteen minutes,” Daenerys replies.

“And this is your sponsor?”

Daenerys smiles a little. “One of them,” she says. “She’s the main reason I’m in Greece - I’m helping promote her new line. She’s a designer.”

“Right,” Jon nods. It’s like Grey said; _influencer culture._ Make people want what you have. Beauty, clothes, health, wealth. It leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth.

His thoughts must have shown on his face. At least Daenerys peers at him and states: “I get the feeling you’re not a big fan of what I do.”

Jon deflects the question: “It’s all work, isn’t it?” He peels at his camera bag. A pack of smokes is sticking out of the side pocket.

Daenerys nods at it. “Mind sharing?”

“Sure.” Jon lights her a cigarette before getting himself one. As the scent of ashes fills the car, Daenerys turns down the music a notch.

“It’s all work,” she repeats his earlier words. She bites down on the filter as she turns the car around a narrow corner. “You’ve got that right. It’s all work. Accounting, retail, modelling - we get by somehow.”

“Some better than others.”

Daenerys smirks. She has a drag of her cigarette. As smoke escapes the full corners of her lips, she breathes: “Tell me about yourself.”

“Me?” Jon blinks. His hold around the camera bag tightens. He stares at the road ahead without really seeing it. “I mean - what do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Daenerys shrugs. “Favourite meal? Best movie? What stuff do you like to photograph?”

Jon takes his time with his smoke as he mulls over her questions. One is more interesting than the others: _what stuff do you like to photograph?_ He sees it: the bare bodies, raw and real, with scars and scabs and marks. He purses his lips. He replies: “I like a Sunday roast.”

“Oh, classic,” Daenerys nods and tips her cigarette up and down in approval, causing ashes to flicker through the air. “I do too.”

Jon looks down at his hands. Before he can stop himself, he says: “Can I ask _you_ a question?”

“Of course.” Daenerys glances between him and the road. Her expression is open and honest. It almost makes his stomach churn. “Anything,” she says, before clarifying: “Not that I’ll answer _anything,_ but you can try me.”

“Why do you do what you do?”

Daenerys is caught off-guard, he can tell. Her lips pop in thought, and she is quiet for a bit, focusing on the road as she turns and swevers down the cobbled streets, the vehicle shaking lightly. “I guess I like to help people,” she finally says.

The ache in his stomach intensifies. Jon’s teeth close tightly around his cigarette. It almost snaps in half. _“Help people?”_ he repeats incredulously. There’s a hollow laugh to his voice.

“Yes?” Daenerys says. She looks at him.

Jon stares at her. His lips part -

and the car stops. Daenerys unbuckles her seatbelt. “Right on time,” she says and steps out. She waves for Jon to follow. “Come on - I don’t like keeping clients waiting.”

Jon hesitates. His heartbeat is in his throat. It seems to throb in his ears as he watches her cross the street to a shop on the other side. She looks ridiculous. She looks amazing. He dislikes everything about her. He thinks of Grey. He thinks of the paycheque. Then he forces himself out of the car and into the midday heat.

The place is small, and expensive. Jon normally shops in Primark where the racks are so full that clothes pile up on the floor. Here, dresses and blouses and skirts are hung with space in between. There’s a scent of chamomile in the air. It sticks to his tongue and makes him feel parched.

The woman behind the counter is tall and skinny. Her red hair hangs to her waist. As they walk in, a white smile takes over her face. She greets Daenerys warmly: “Dany! It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s been too long,” Daenerys replies, hugging the woman over the desk. She turns to Jon and adds: ”Melisandre, this is Jon. He is covering for Grey.”

“Pleasure,” Melisandre says and offers Jon her hand.

Jon takes it and gives it a polite shake. Her skin feels warm. His hand is clammy. He pulls back before she can linger on it. “Are you a friend of Daenerys?” he asks.

“I’m a friend of anyone worth knowing,” Melisandre replies vaguely. Her eyes are on his body. “But mostly, I am a _creator.”_

“Melisandre has designed everything in here,” Daenerys explains.

Jon nods and looks around. He tries to sound engaged as he says: “Oh really?” but it just comes out gruffly.

Melisandre doesn’t seem to care. She walks around the desk. “Yes, really. You’d think the place would be packed, right? But young people are hard to reach.” She cocks her head a little as she sends Daenerys a knowing look. “Luckily, once more, Daenerys has agreed to come to my rescue.”

“You’ve modelled for this brand before?” Jon asks.

Daenerys sends him a funny look. “That’s how I got my breakthrough,” she says. “Back in London.”

“Right,” Jon says. His ears feel warm. He unpacks his camera to have something to do with his hands. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“Are you sure he didn’t just walk in off the street?” Melisandre jokes to Daenerys as she guides her to the back. Though Jon tries not to pay attention, he feels _stupid_ \- and the next hour does little to lift his spirit.

Daenerys poses in three different dresses; red chiffon, blue silk, green cotton. The necklines are low. The hemlines are short. When she twirls, he sees a hint of her pants; small, and flimsy, and lavender. He keeps his camera close to his face not to reveal the blush on his cheeks, but he thinks she sees it anyway. At least, she makes a big show of asking his opinion on _everything._

“Are my breasts spilling in this dress?” she’ll ask, pulling at the straps, and: “Can you see my buttocks when I do this?” whilst bending over to touch her toes, and: “What colour suits me best, Jon - red or green?” as she peers through the changing room curtain, her shoulders bared, the dresses the only coverage for her underwear.

“Dany, you’re making him shy,” Melisandre chuckles.

Jon doesn’t reply. He just keeps focusing on the little screen on his camera. His cheeks burn. His chest burns. He wishes himself outside in the Greek heat. The scorching sun seems more appealing than facing Daenerys. He’s not sure what’s making her send him cheeky grins as she flaunts her body - but he can guess.

_It’s a punishment,_ Jon decides as they leave the shop some time later. He’s first back in the car - strapped in, radio on, eyes on the road, waiting. Daenerys only leisurely follows, finishing her chat with Melisandre first, hauling a bag full of clothes with her. _It’s what I get for questioning her work._

As Daenerys joins him in the car and says: “That was fun!” he just nods and lights a cigarette.

“It was,” he lies.

“Good photos?”

“Yep.”

Daenerys eyes him. There’s a question on her lips, he can tell - they curve, pop, her front teeth showing as she takes a small breath in.

He can’t bear it. He forces a smile and says: “Any more shoots planned today?”

Daenerys’ lips close. She blinks. Then she shrugs. “Ah, nothing I can’t do myself,” she says as she starts the vehicle. “I just need to prep a story and some videos. You can take the evening off.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, still not certain what a _story_ is. He rolls the cigarette between his fingertips. He blows the smoke out of the window. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Don’t blame you,” Daenerys says, putting on her shades as she adds: “Good view in daylight.”

“Right,” Jon says, avoiding eye contact. “Good view.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days happen in a blur.

It is hot. Jon sweats. Daenerys is in a bikini. They shoot once in the morning, and once in the afternoon. Sometimes they go on trips. Often, they remain in the villa, using a new room as the setting for her promotions. She advertises lingerie and hair products. She looks sumptuous in crop-tops and yoga pants. She never does the poses; no stretching in the setting sun, no squatting at the pool.

Jon doesn’t ask questions - he smiles, he is polite, he gets the pictures done. And he makes sure not to _sulk._ Not even when Daenerys teases him and asks:

“Is anything _visible?”_ whilst pulling at her g-string.

Jon just smiles. Jon just shakes his head. The photos look good. He doesn’t edit them - straight onto the laptop, then an attachment to Missandei. He doesn’t want to see the finished product. He never asks for her _handle._

A week in, Sansa calls.

“How’s nature?” she asks.

Jon paces the windows in his room. Daenerys is in the pool. She swims around and around like a fish. Her hair is braided. Golden pins glimmer in her updo. He tells himself that the shine is _distracting him_ as he watches her do another round. Her feet kick. Her arms swing. Her head pops up and down under the surface of the water. He imagines the noises she makes, the small gasps, the breathless huffs. He replies: “Fascinating.”

“Where are you now?”

Jon answers before thinking: “Greece.” He could kick himself.

“Greece!” Sansa’s voice is part excited, part shocked. _“You’re_ in _Greece?_ Isn’t it, like, _hot?”_

“Something like that,” Jon replies, pulling at the curtain. Daenerys has exhausted herself. She’s resting on the pool edge. Her breasts sit wetly in her black swimsuit. He wonders if her skin is warm from the sun.

“Is it for tourism?”

“Something like that.”

Sansa sighs. “You’re very vague.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Jon promises. “Just two more weeks.”

“I’ll be surprised if you’ve not burned to ashes by then,” Sansa says airily. “Good luck!”

Jon takes in a shivering breath as Daenerys slips into the water and starts doing backstrokes. “Thanks,” he mumbles, “I need it.”

He can’t tell her the truth. The thought makes his stomach churn. So he bites his teeth together and sits silently through the evenings of drinking and chatting, letting Missandei and Daenerys dictate the nights. They talk about holidays and parties and advertisements and sponsors. They plan events and meet-ups. They rarely ask for his opinion.

Things are going so smoothly that Jon almost forgets his mantra: _don’t think._ One Tuesday afternoon, he’s caught unaware.

* * *

“I think we got it!” Jon shouts as Daenerys emerges from the pool. Her bikini is dotted with flowers. They look like they’re covered in dew as she flops down on the edge of the pool and breathes out in relief.

“Thank God! I couldn’t swim much longer.”

The sun has set. The fairy lights are on. Missandei is inside watching TV. Through the open doors, Jon can hear the faint voices from a movie playing. She’s talking to someone on the phone. Her chatter is a buzzing noise in the background.

“Can I see?” Daenerys asks, and Jon kneels down as he hands over the camera to allow her to flick through the shoot. She’s swimming, playing with the water, grinning, laughing, diving. She stops at a photo of her breathless, floating, her face a picture of pain. She chuckles. “This is the one.”

“Really?” Jon leans in over her shoulder as he gazes at the shoot. “It’s a little- well…” He can’t find the words.

Daenerys smirks: “Ugly? I know. I love it.”

Jon takes in a deep breath. _Don’t ask. It’s good money._ He just shrugs and takes the camera back. “I’ll send them over,” he says and straightens up. “You and Missandei can pick then.” He turns to leave.

Daenerys reaches out and grabs him by the shirt. “Hey,” she says, stopping him in his tracks.

When Jon turns to look at her, her hand drops. “Yeah?”

“Just-” Daenerys pauses. She looks at him. She looks toward the sea. The sun is no longer visible. The water still has a warm, red glow to it. “Never mind,” she says.

“Do you want another picture?” Jon asks. He slowly turns on his heels, looking between her and his camera. “I can take a few more if you’re not happy.”

Daenerys shakes her head with a little smile, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hands are closed at the pool edge. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you miss Edinburgh?” she finally asks.

Jon is not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _that._ He blinks. He pauses. He replies: “Yes.”

“I miss London.” Daenerys kicks the surface of the water. Droplets fly through the air. “It’s always fun at first, travelling. But when it becomes your job, it gets tiresome.”

Jon glances around at the hammock, the glimmering water, the fancy villa. Even before he says anything, Daenerys laughs:

“I know what you’re thinking. _She’s tired of this?_ It’s a luxury issue, I’m aware. But I still miss London.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Jon lies. He kicks the ground as he searches for something to say. He doesn’t want to talk about himself. He admits: “I don’t normally do these kinds of shoots.”

“I guessed that,” Daenerys says wryly. She glances up at him as she adds: “But you needed the money?” It’s not a question - it’s a statement.

Jon fiddles with his camera. “I needed the money,” he agrees.

“Hmm.” Daenerys wraps her arms around herself and looks back across the sea.

Jon kicks the ground again. He wants to leave. He feels committed to the conversation. He continues: “I have a studio, but it’s pretty small. It definitely needs some work.”

“What kind of stuff do you photograph?”

“Honestly?” Jon hesitates. It’s the second time she’s asked the question. He takes in a deep breath. He says: _“Nude photography.”_

Her reaction is surprised glee. “Really?” she says, looking up at him with a laugh on her lips. When she realises that he’s not joking, the laugh becomes a teasing smile. “You dirty man.”

“It’s not like that,” Jon says. He scratches his nape. He can’t help but laugh a bit. _Embarrassing._ “It’s-”

“Tasteful?” Daenerys guesses.

Jon looks down at her. He smiles a little and nods. “Yes. Tasteful. I like when things feel real, you know?”

Daenerys leans back onto her hands as she eyes him, feet still kicking the water. She’s listening. She’s waiting for him to carry on.

Jon licks his lips. He finally squats at her side as he continues to speak. “It’s all very low-key. I try to get people in the right light and the right pose. I don’t want them to feel exposed, that’s not what it’s about. It’s about embracing what and who you are. Birthmarks, surgery scars? I don’t want to hide it. I want to celebrate it.”

“That sounds nice.” Daenerys says.

Jon thinks she means it. He can’t stop himself. As she watches him, he gesticulates with his hands as he excitedly continues: “It _is_ nice. You should see the difference it makes for people when they’re not looking at themselves in a mirror of judgement, but a photo of beauty. There’s too much _fakeness_ out there today. It’s all photoshop and filt-” He stares into her eyes. It’s like his brain is only just catching up to what his mouth is saying. His throat knots up. His last word becomes a hoarse sound. He silences.

Daenerys cocks her head. Her wet hair rolls down her shoulders. “I’m going to a party tomorrow,” she says.

It wasn’t the reply Jon expected. His throat still hurts. He just manages a: “Uh-huh?” He’s not even sure she can hear it. Sweat drips into his eyes. He doesn’t dare to blink it away.

Daenerys twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. “There’ll be a lot of people from the industry. It’s a bit of fun, of course, but also a good opportunity to network.”

“Mhm,” Jon says. He’s still not really listening. His own words play on repeat in his head. He wonders if he sounded dumb. He wonders if he’s going to lose his job.

Daenerys purses her lips. “You should come,” she says.

Jon’s gaze snaps back to her. “I should?”

 _“Network,”_ she repeats. “There’ll be models, photographers, investors - just hang out, meet some people, maybe find some support. It’ll surprise you what this industry can do in one night.” She pauses. She adds with a hint of a tease: “Even for an _authentic_ man like yourself.”

“Right,” Jon says, feeling his cheeks heat. He stands up and tries to hide them in the shadows from the terrace. “I’ll think about it.”

“I leave at six tomorrow,” she says and turns back to face the water. “Just let me know.”

As Jon climbs the stairs to his room, he can’t help but wonder if she’s pulling a trick. _Networking._ It’s never been his strongest suit, especially not amongst gorgeous models and men with properties across Europe. He hates the idea. He loves the idea. If he closes his eyes for a moment, he can imagine it: his studio, transformed, freshly painted and with new flooring, green plants lighting up the corners, umbrella lights aplenty, two ( _no,_ he thinks, _three!)_ cameras lined up for his use - Canon, Sony, Nikon. Doesn't matter he won't use them - he'll _have_ them.

“Don’t be silly,” he tells himself as he settles with his laptop, uploading the photos to Missandei’s account. “It’s probably just a small gathering. Nothing to get excited about.”

* * *

The music is loud. The drinks are colourful. Jon feels lost in the crowd. The men frown at him. The women smile. He can’t tell if they fancy him or pity him. He sweats. The gel in his hair has worn out. His curls stick to his cheeks, and nape, and the collar of his shirt. He wishes he was home - not in the cliffside villa, but Edinburgh. He misses the rain and the cold. In the midst of a bustling party, he’s never felt more alone.

Wednesday evening. From the outside, the villa looked tiny. Jon is starting to think all properties in Santorini are built to trick the eye. Daenerys drove them to Fira. The capital is full of nightclubs and bars and restaurants. “It’s always busy,” she said, “I don’t often come here.” Still, she navigated the narrow streets with ease, and before Jon had time to reflect on the upcoming event, they were there; large house, large crowd. Daenerys was dragged away by a group of girls before she could even introduce him. He decided it was okay. He’s an adult. He can manage himself.

He is no longer so sure.

“So, nude photography, huh?” the man in front of him says. He’s slick in a white suit. The black hair on his head has been brushed back. He eyes Jon with interest. “That sounds _fascinating.”_

“It’s all very tasteful,” Jon says. He’s tired of the word. He tries to sound casual and friendly. When the guy hooks a thumb into the loop of his belt and poses, he tries to imitate his nonchalant stance. “It’s art, really. A form of art.”

“Why, I agree!” the man assures him. He grabs a drink from a passing server’s tray. As he sips it, his lips curl into a smile around the edge of the glass. “I like people who take risks. _Nudes._ They’re not allowed anywhere online these days. It’s a shame.”

“It is,” Jon nods dryly.

“Here,” he reaches into the pocket of his suit, withdraws a small card, and hands it to Jon. It’s thick, and the lettering on it is golden. _Oberyn Martell, Editor-in-Chief._ “Take this. Call me. I’d like to hear more.”

“Really?” Jon says surprised. He looks from the card to the man - Oberyn, presumably - and blinks. “You’re interested?”

“Of course!” Oberyn exclaims and gives his shoulder a friendly bump with his own. “I’ve always been a fan of _erotica.”_

Jon doesn’t comment. Jon just smiles. The moment Oberyn has disappeared back into the crowd, he tears up the card and throws the pieces into the air. _So much for sponsorship,_ he thinks, bitterly downgrading the image of the studio in his head as he carries on through the villa.

He finds Daenerys in the kitchen chatting with a group of people. She’s on the counter, her legs crossed, her heels slipping off her feet. She looks stunning in a short lace dress. When she spots him and waves him over, he tries not to stare at the way the hemline is riding up her thighs. He allows her to pull him to her side. She smells of rum. She looks happy.

“Jon!” she says, giving his arm a squeeze. It hurts. It feels good. He tightens his muscles instinctively. “I lost you. Did you manage to meet a few people?”

“Sure,” Jon lies.

Daenerys looks chuffed. “Told you,” she says and winks, “this place is amazing for networking.” Before she can catch him grimacing, she turns back to the group of people and says: “Everyone, this is Jon - he’s the guy standing in for Grey. Jon,” she peers back at him and gestures at the people, “this is everyone.”

“Hey,” Jon says warily, raising his hand. _Everyone_ is a brunette with a phone stuck to her hand, a woman dressed in lavish green, and a chiseled man with curly brown hair. The man ignores him. The brunette says:

“Hi,” whilst lifting her phone higher, hiding her face.

The woman in green smiles: “Evening Jon, I’m Ellaria Martell.” She offers her hand.

Jon shakes it with slight surprise. “Oh, are you related to Oberyn Martell?” he asks.

The woman’s smile grows. “Oh, I see,” she says slowly. She’s still shaking his hand. Even when Jon pulls back, she lingers before letting him go. “You’ve met my husband. That must mean you’re the _nudist.”_

Jon flushes as the brunette chuckles: “You’re a nudist?”

“No,” he says, his teeth gritted. He hopes he’s smiling. He thinks he’s snarling. “I do nude photography. It’s _tasteful.”_ He doesn’t like the way the brunette is laughing at him. He feels watched through her phone.

Daenerys’ hand rests on his arm. He feels the tips of her nails caress his fabric. When he peers at her, he finds her looking at the brunette, kindly. “He helps make people feel good about their bodies, Margaery,” she says succinctly.

“By being nude?” the man asks in a scoff.

 _“Loras.”_ Ellaria clucks her tongue. Her voice is warning.

“How does you being nude help anyone? Do you look odd naked?”

“I’m not nude,” Jon sighs, _“they_ are.”

“Oh, so it’s erotica?”

Jon turns to Daenerys. “I think I’ll head home.”

“Already? It’s only half past nine,” she says, checking her phone. “I’m staying until midnight. I can give you a ride then.”

“I’d like to go now,” Jon says. He’s whispering. He’s sure everyone can hear him. They look at him the same way they did when discussing his profession - with smirks, with self-satisfaction. He hates them. He doesn’t know half of their names, but he hates them already. “Coming was a mistake.”

“I can introduce you to someone else,” Daenerys offers.

Jon’s pocket buzzes. He glances from Daenerys to Margaery’s mobile to his jeans. He pulls out his phone. Sansa’s name is on the screen. He swears under his breath and stuff it away. “Forget it,” he mumbles, “I don’t think this is my _scene.”_

Daenerys looks miffed. “You’ve done really good work though,” she says. “I’d really love to give you a shout out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Those things can really help.”

“Look, Daenerys, I- could you stop taking photos?” Jon has turned to Margaery. Her phone is still up in the air. He can see her smiling behind it, innocently.

“I’m not taking photos,” she assures him.

Jon feels heat in his face. He’s not embarrassed. He’s _angry._ “Then why,” he says, trying to control his voice, “are you constantly pointing _that_ in our direction?”

“I’m _streaming.”_

“Well, I don’t want any part of it, so you can delete it.”

Margaery raises her brows at him. _“Live streaming,”_ she clarifies, and Jon feels his heart sink in his chest. His phone buzzes louder. He almost can’t hear Margaery as she continues: “I do it at all parties. My followers love it.”

Before Jon can stop himself, he’s reached out and closed his hand around her phone. He pushes it down, and Margaery takes a step backwards with a yelp.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her face is no longer innocent - it’s scrounged up in anger.

Jon’s own face is red with fury. “I said _stop!”_

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“You never asked!”

“It’s an _influencer party,”_ Margaery breathes, staring at him like he’s insane, “what else did you expect?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He stares from Margaery to Ellaria. The woman has pressed herself up against the counter, her face partially shocked, partially amused. The man, Loras, looks like he could punch him. When Jon meets his eyes, however, he thinks better of it and takes a step back. He mumbles:

“Loser,” and looks away in spite. Then, there’s Daenerys.

She’s pale with surprise. When Jon meets her eyes, she stares back at him, confused. “I only wanted to help,” she says. Her voice is quiet and barely audible over the music.

Jon lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His hands have turned to fists at his sides. He tries to loosen them. He finds his fingers stuck to his palms. “This was a mistake,” he says. He tries to speak slowly and clearly. He feels like shouting.

“It’s just a party,” Daenerys replies.

Jon shakes his head. “No, this job. I shouldn’t-” his phone starts buzzing again. He grimaces: “I shouldn’t have accepted. I can’t do this anymore. Sorry.” And just like that, he turns on his heels and makes his way out of the party. He can hear Daenerys call behind him:

“But the car-”

“I’ll walk!” he replies. He doesn’t know the way. He doesn’t care. As soon as he escapes the heat of the crowd, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and starts marching down the hill.

He was always a joke. Jon senses it at once; since he arrived, he’s been lost. He never really understood the shoots, Daenerys is always teasing him, and now her friends have joined in on the mockery. To them, his real passion is just something to laugh about. _And I’ve allowed it to be pushed aside for money,_ Jon thinks, kicking at the ground as he walks.

He turns corners at random. He walks narrow streets. Parties are happening all around him. The clubs are busy. The tourists are drunk. They wade through the streets singing. Some of them try to include him in their brawling. He turns some more corners to avoid them. His legs start aching. By the time he stops, he’s by the water.

Jon leans onto the metallic railing as he watches the sea. The waves roll across the surface. He can smell the beach - it washes away the scent of the crowd, clears his mind, calms his heart. His phone buzzes. He feels sick. It’s one thing forgetting his passion - it’s another to betray family.

Sansa is calling. He peers at her name on the screen for ages, his thumb shivering on the button. Finally, just before the call ends, he picks up.

“Hey,” he says, “look-” but Sansa interrupts him:

“You’re in fucking _Santorini?”_

Jon gapes. He turns and looks around, half expecting her to be watching him from somewhere. “Why would you think that?” he asks.

“You work with Daenerys Targaryen, and you don’t even tell me?” His sister’s voice is breathless. She sounds pissed. She sounds in awe.

Jon’s eyes scour the landscape even more closely. His heartbeat is in his throat. “How-”

“I saw the livestream, Jon,” she explains before he can ask. “I can’t believe it. _Daenerys._ Why didn’t you say?”

“You shouldn’t even be on Pinterest!” Jon protests.

 _“Instagram,”_ Sansa corrects him.

“Whatever!” His voice starts out weak, but as he starts speaking, it gains power: “Wasn’t that agreed with your therapist? Sansa, remember what hap-”

She interrupts him again, her voice snooty: “Actually, Jon, my therapist agrees that following certain accounts is _beneficial_ to my health.”

Jon’s lips snap together. He rolls his eyes as he leans back against the railing. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels a headache coming along. He sighs. He starts: “Look, it doesn’t matter. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have taken the job, not after all that’s- well, I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” He pauses. “I’m catching a flight home tomorrow.”

“Don’t put this on me. I just told you - accounts like hers are good for me.”

“How can they be good?” Jon asks exasperated. He throws his hands up as he says: “This is what got you sick, Sansa. This _obsession.”_

His sister is quiet. For a while, all he can hear is just her breathing. He thinks she’s upset, but when she speaks, her voice is gentle: “You don’t know anything about her, do you?”

It’s not what he expected. He stares out at the sea. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa sighs. “Let me guess - you’ve never even looked at her Instagram, have you?”

“What are you on about?” Jon repeats, avoiding the question.

Sansa smiles. He can hear it in her voice. “I’ll text you her handle,” she says, “why don’t you look it up while I explain.”

* * *

By the time Jon finds his way back, it is almost midnight. The air has cooled; his skin is clammy, and his feet ache, and his head is heavy. He wants nothing more than to crawl into bed, sleep, and forget this evening ever happened. But _she_ is there.

Daenerys sits in the faint glow from the fairy lights. Her back is turned to him. When the gate shuts, she stirs and looks over her shoulder toward him. “Hi,” she says. The expression on her face is neutral - no smile, no anger. Nothing.

“Hey.” Jon hesitates in the shadows. He doesn’t want to look at her. He can’t look away - something about her violet eyes draws him in. She’s watching him, intensely, and when he steps out into the light, her lips purse a little.

“Ah,” she says with a slow nod of understanding, “you know.”

“Know what?”

“I can see it in your eyes,” Daenerys continues, _“pity.”_

Jon doesn’t comment. He slowly approaches. She’s sat on the pool edge, her feet submerged in the water. Before she can get up, he kicks off his shoes and slumbs down next to her. The water is cold against his skin. His fingers close tightly into the grass as he fights the urge to pull away.

Daenerys no longer smells of rum. She has a scent of fresh air. Jon wonders how long she’s been sitting outside. Before he can ask, she says: “That was quite the scene at the party.”

“Sorry.” Jon kicks the surface. Droplets fling through the air. “I don’t like feeling a fool.”

“That’s not all,” Daenerys says, and Jon admits in a mumble:

“No, it’s not.”

It is quiet. Somewhere in the distance, the dull sound of music playing teases the air. But Jon can mainly hear his heart beating and Daenerys breathing and the crass sound of grass running between his fingers. He thinks of the party. He thinks of his sister.

Jon takes in a deep breath. “I’ve never seen your Instagram.”

Daenerys shrugs. “I kind of figured that out.”

“I don’t really engage with those kinds of things. Those _influencer_ platforms.”

“But you needed the money,” Daenerys says with a sigh to her voice. “Jon, I know all of this. You don’t have to explain.”

“Grey did me a favour,” Jon continues. “So did Missi. They both know I need some funds to kickstart my business. But they didn’t-” He pauses. The words seem stuck to his mouth. He knows what to say. He can’t seem to push it past his lips.

Daenerys looks at him. “You’re just not into social media. That’s fine.”

“No-” Jon says. He stops again.

“I take no issues with your work. I don’t care if you don’t follow me or dislike me - I like what you do.”

“No, it’s-” Jon licks his lips. He swallows. He looks at his hands. He says: “My sister is sick. _Was_ sick. She’s better now. She was obsessed with those apps, you know? Picture perfect lifestyles. She’d do whatever it took, and I mean _whatever.”_

This time, Daenerys doesn’t speak. Jon doesn’t have to look toward her to know: she’s watching him, she is listening. Her quiet is a plea for him to continue.

Jon closes his hands into fists in his lap. “She developed an eating disorder. All because some stupid pictures convinced her that she wasn’t good enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says. He knows she means it - he can tell in the faintness of her voice, in the hand on his arm. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah.” Jon focuses on his hands - his nails in his palms, painfully dragging at his skin, making him remember to _breathe._ He is angry. He is sad. He can’t pinpoint the emotions, even less make sense of them. “I just watched her disappear before my eyes, you know? She used to be this happy person.”

“How did she change?”

“She became obsessive - calorie counting, measuring. She was still living at home then. One night, Dad called. They’d been arguing, but she was too weak to argue. She just collapsed in front of him.” He breathes in. “Dad thought she was dead.” He breathes out. “She hadn’t eaten for a week.”

Daenerys doesn’t speak. Her fingers just dig deeper into his arm, holding him, tugging at him.

Jon feels the pain. He welcomes it. When he blinks, tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away. He breathes in. He breathes out. “We cut her off from the internet. We got her help. That was two years ago, but- I don’t know.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I always think it could happen again.”

“Was that her on the phone?” Daenerys asks gently. “At the party?”

Jon nods. “This whole time, I’ve felt like a _traitor_ being here. Like I was doing some sort of _dirty work._ I lied to her when she called me. Told her I was, I don’t know, photographing _nature.”_ He can’t help but let go of a short laugh at the thought.

Daenerys smiles a little. Her hand strokes across his arm, his shoulder, onto his back. She holds him without moving closer. “I didn’t know,” she says unnecessarily. “I’m sorry.”

“How could you know. Missi didn’t know. Grey didn’t know. It’s not something I share. And please don’t tell them,” Jon adds the last bit in a hurry, and he finally looks at her, his eyes slightly scared, “I don’t want them to feel bad about recommending me.”

Daenerys pretends to zip up her mouth. “Not a word,” she promises.

Jon eyes her - how her silver hair falls softly across her face, and her lashes slowly bash, and her lips part, her front teeth peeking out between them. He reaches up. He pushes a hand through her hair. The locks fall between his fingertips. He wants to speak.

Daenerys beats him to it: “You know.” Her gaze is confident.

Jon’s hand slips free of her hair. Not until the last wisp has left his hand does he admit: “I spoke to her, after the party. I told her everything. She’d seen me on the livestream, so there was no point in denying it. And she-” he pauses. He looks at her. He continues: “-she told me about you.”

Daenerys’ hand slips off his back. For a moment, Jon thinks she’s going to pull away, get up, and leave. But instead, she grabs his hand. She leads him back to her hair. As his fingers slip into the silver locks, she says: “You can’t imagine me bald.”

Jon laughs. “No,” he admits, “I can’t. Well, _couldn’t._ I finally saw your pictures.”

“Cancer happens to other people, you know? It’s always a colleague, or the neighbour, or some distant aunt. It’s never _you_ \- until suddenly, it is.” Daenerys glances across the pool, up past the terrace, into the sky. Stars have started showing. They’re faint, but visible. “I was in my last year of uni. It was exciting - a time of change.”

“Not that kind,” Jon says and Daenerys smiles bitterly:

“No, not that kind.” She closes her eyes. “When I got ill, it was as if my life was put on hold. I couldn’t travel, I couldn’t graduate. The jobs I’d interviewed for dropped me. Treatment made me feel so, so sick. I couldn’t even leave my bed.”

Jon remembers Sansa: small, faint, pale. The smell of the hospital: clean, too clean. The gowns of paper. The doctors’ unreadable notes. Difficulties truths spoken in small rooms. “No one should have to go through that,” he says.

“What did your sister tell you about me?” Daenerys asks. Her eyes are still closed, her face turned toward the sky. “About what I do?”

“Well-” Jon scratches his nape as he tries to recall the conversation. Even thinking about it makes him feel a bit _daft._ “She said what you do is _body positivity._ No filters, no editing.” He pauses. “I saw my pictures on your profile. I saw that it’s all, well…”

“Real?” Daenerys opens her eyes and looks at him. There’s a small smile on her lips. “I thought you would have guessed from shooting me. I don’t hide anything. I am what I am.”

“Because of the cancer?”

Daenerys’ smile fades. She looks down at her feet. She slowly kicks the water.

Jon feels his heart ache. “I’m- forget it. Sorry, I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything,” he quickly stammers.

Daenerys is silent for a few more seconds. When she speaks again, her voice is almost a whisper. “I was with a guy at the time. Drogo was his name. Very fit. I never understood why he was with me, you know? And I don’t think he understood it either. When I got sick, he stuck with me because that’s what you do.”

This time, Jon is the one to be quiet. His hand reaches out across the stone toward hers. When he grabs hers, he feels a shiver in her skin. He gives it a squeeze.

Daenerys continues: “Between the chemo and being sick, I lost weight. I lost _a lot_ of weight. He noticed, and you’d think he’d be horrified, right? Suddenly his girlfriend is all skin and bones. But he was _elated.”_ She lets go of a laugh. It sounds like a sob.

Jon squeezes her hand more tightly. “What a dickhead,” he says. He wishes he could be more elaborate, perhaps explain the ache that’s settling in his body, the warmth of anger, the cold touch of pain. But all he can do is shake his head and mutter: “A fucking _dickhead,”_ over and over.

“Yeah,” Daenerys says, letting go of another sob. “I realised that. So when I made it through, I thought: I am never, ever going to let anyone dictate my relationship with my body ever again. That’s why I do what I do - to feel good about what I look like, at whatever weight, and to let others know that they can too.”

“That’s what Sansa said,” Jon interjects gently. “That it helps her love herself.”

“I don’t expect others to understand,” Daenerys says. When she looks at Jon, there’s tears in her eyes, but she’s also smiling. “But I think you do. That’s why you do your photography, isn’t it? To make people love their bodies.”

“We are what we are,” Jon nods. He’s closer to her. He can smell more of her - from the fresh air to the dry shampoo to the touch of perfume on her neck. Her hand in his seems small. He feels strong and humble before her all at once.

“We are what we are,” Daenerys agrees, leaning in, _“perfectly imperfect.”_

Her lips are soft, and her cheek is cold, and when Jon’s arms wrap around her body, he can feel all of her; the sweat on the small of her back, the flesh of her thigh pushing to his leg, the scab of an old scar by her hairline. And he’s never wanted anyone more in his life.

Daenerys’ hands are in his hair, on his chest, dragging him atop of her. Her breath is stuck between their lips, a heated, humid air growing around them as they touch, kiss, and feel every inch of each other’s body.

Jon tastes her lips, her chin, her neckline. His tongue lingers on the tangy zest of her perfume and the warm perspiration on her collarbone and the feeling of her soft skin beneath his rough fingertips as he strokes her legs, her knees. The hemline of her dress is stuck across her thighs. He has to push it up as his hand brushes between her legs to reach her sex. Her knickers are wet. His fingers sink into the fabric with ease, making her gasp.

“Oh Jon,” Daenerys whispers, and Jon stirs and peers up at her as he breathes:

“No?” and Daenerys smiles as her hands sink through his hair, and she tugs his head up to allow her to kiss him as she tells him:

_“Yes.”_

They’re out of the water. Daenerys is flat on the stone, Jon hovering her, shadowing her. He admires her with his mouth: down the roundness of her breasts and the curve of her stomach, up between her full, warm thighs, their inners sticky from humidity, and to her sex. Her juices seep through the thin fabric. Jon uses the flat of his tongue to taste her, dig around the knickers, sink into the softness of her cunt. He doesn’t know what she wants, but she shows him with eagerness; her hands are in his hair, her legs spread, her body arched on the cold stone.

“There,” she whispers, dragging his face closer, and: “Gently,” when his tongue rounds her clit, and: “Deeper,” when he sinks a finger into her.

Jon can feel her against his lips - the way she moves, the way she aches. His fingers fill her. His tongue surrounds her. It is hot between her quivering legs. He wants her. He wants to make her feel good, and when she moans and gasps, and her nails drag across his scalp, and her feet kick to the ground, he knows he’s succeeded.

“Oh God,” Daenerys moans as Jon’s tongue sinks in between her labia. He is exploring her with his mouth, and it is making her wet - she is on his face and in his beard, and when she pushes his head back, she can see it reflected in the fairy lights. Light droplets of her juices cover his face. It makes her smile. “Come,” she says. Her voice is warm.

Jon stirs and crawls back atop her, watching her, his grey eyes never parting with her violet stare. He licks her off his lips. He kisses her. He wonders if she can taste herself.

“Come,” she says again, her word a breath in his mouth. Her hands are on his chest, they’re by his jeans. As he hovers her, she unzips him, pulls him out, takes him in her hand. He is hard. He is throbbing. Her soft palm and the heated air does little to cool him down. She strokes him. She guides him. She leads him between her legs. She says: _“Come.”_

Jon enters her in a shallow thrust. Her cunt welcomes him, leads him in, surrounds him tightly. He feels breathless. He feels good - with Daenerys arms around him, and her legs pushing up to meet his movements, he knows he’s wanted as much as he wants her.

Jon fucks her on the pool edge. It is quick, and greedy. But it is also soft, and gentle. He senses it in the way she watches him, and holds him. In the way she guides him, and urges him. In the way she lets him kiss her marks and feel her body, every inch of it comfortable to his touch, every part of himself willing to submit to her needs.

He is panting. She is moaning. Her legs rest at his hips. He holds her by the cheek, and by the waist. He feels her pecks to his nose, and cheeks, and ears. He tastes her coming as she gasps to his lips, her cunt tightening, her body jerking beneath his.

Jon rocks into her. He closes his eyes. He comes, his nose deep in her hair, smelling her, letting his body be overwhelmed by her. Then, as quickly as it started, it’s over.

They’re breathless. Jon kneels next to her as he tugs himself away. She is adjusting the hemline of her dress. She can’t hide the stickiness on her thighs, her skin glowing beneath the fairy lights. Jon watches it for as long as he can before feeling the need to look her in the eyes.

Daenerys smiles.

Jon smiles back. He flips down onto his back, and she nestles into his armpit as he holds her, his gaze seeking the stars. They’re more visible now. If he knew constellations, he’s sure he could point them out. Instead, he says: “Thank you,” and Daenerys laughs.

“Don’t be silly,” she mumbles. Her arm slips over his chest. Her nose dives deeper into his shirt. He’s sure she can smell him. He doesn’t even care anymore. He is happy. He is content. “I’m just glad you came back. I thought you were going to leave, after the party.”

“I was,” Jon admits. It feels weird thinking back on now - it’s just been a few hours, but it seems like weeks, months, _years_ ago. _I would’ve left,_ he thinks, holding her a bit more tightly at the thought, _and never experienced this._

“Will you stay?” Daenerys asks.

Jon nods. “Of course,” he says, and he turns over and pecks her forehead as he says, “of course I’ll stay.”

* * *

Jon stares at his ticket with regret. _Edinburgh._ He doesn’t miss it. Sun and heat is where his heart is at. _Sun and heat and her,_ he thinks, putting his flight ticket away as Daenerys climbs out of the car.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” she asks as they pull his luggage from the trunk. She watches him with kindness. It almost makes his heart ache. “I’ve got the villa for another week.”

“I have to go back,” Jon says. There’s regret in his voice. Just _thinking_ about another week fills him with longing - another week of fucking by the pool and sitting up late drinking and taking silly photos at every opportunity. These past few days have been the best he’s ever experienced. He can’t believe he ever wanted it to end. “It’s too expensive to change the ticket.”

“Right,” Daenerys nods. She has the money. She already knows not to offer. Instead, she eyes the ground, quietly.

Jon reaches out and cups her cheek. “Hey,” he says, and he lifts her head as he makes her look at him. “You’ll be in London soon. I’ll come and visit.”

“Who says I won’t visit first?” she asks. “Maybe you can photograph me in your studio.”

“I’d like that,” Jon nods.

“Maybe you can photograph me _tastefully,”_ she adds innocently.

Jon feels his face flush red. “I’d _really_ like that,” he says, unable to fight a small grin from taking over his lips. When she steps closer, he does too, the tips of their shoes touching, their foreheads bumping together. “Will you come?” he asks, his voice more serious. “Will you come to Scotland?”

“Of course,” Daenerys promises, her own voice honest. “I know it’s not the perfect situation, but it’s-” She looks to struggle for words.

Jon smirks: _“Perfectly imperfect?”_

“That’s it,” Daenerys nods. She looks up at him between her pale lashes. She smiles.

Jon smiles. When they kiss, he agrees: _perfectly imperfect._ They may be different, but really they’re the same - and he’ll find a way to make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter! I was really humbled by your support. I hope you liked this ending! This was a story I truly enjoyed writing, and I'm so glad to have the chance to share it with you all. Thank you again!


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